I know it is not necessary to state that I love reading. I also love talking about reading. The other day at the pool, a friend and I started chatting about our childhood history of ourselves as readers. I’m not talking about when we learned to read, or how, or even our first book memory (all of which would have been interesting conversation fodor as well); we specifically were talking about our relationship with libraries and books as children.
My friend read mainly in the summer-I read year-round. She started with the A’s and read through all the books and then would mark the spot she left off to start up again next summer.
I, on the other hand, would read through series until they were through and then move on. In between series and genres, I would comb the shelves alphabetically for books that I hadn’t read yet.
Both of us LOVED biographies such as Angel of the Battlefield: Clara Barton or the few books that existed in an early version of a mail book-club such as Shoeshine Girl.
Both of us are positive we read every book that was in our local public library as children.
Neither of us understand library summer reading programs that end in July! What is that all about? Doesn’t August count? Doesn’t a reading program that has an end date imply that children aren’t expected to read after that date?
Our other friends at the pool that day looked at us like we had a third hands. Meanwhile, we were just happy to have found a kindred spirit who understood that the little red wagon that was taken to the library, wasn’t for getting a ride home. It was a measuring device for how many books we could check out!